


Bitter

by nutm3g



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: M/M, One-sided hate sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 00:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5185589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutm3g/pseuds/nutm3g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quick drabble of Urie in a nasty situation with the person he hates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> From Urie's pov! The italicized stands for Urie's innermost thoughts.

You can't stand him. You can't fucking stand him. The way he acts so coolly, as though nothing had happened in the past that instigated this deep loathing you feel towards him. You know he's well aware of how you feel. And he pretends like all is well. Like you're friends.

_Stop breathing._

The way he carries himself so fucking humbly, like his accomplishments mean so little while everyone else hoists him up onto a pedestal. He is God to them – a disgusting heathen to you.

_Just die already._

The way he speaks so calmly to you, even as the distance between bodies is lessened, as hands find their way to your waist. As loose lips graze taut lips concealing grinding teeth.

_Get your disgusting hands off of me._

Yet you don't take yours off of him.

No, you all but tear the clothes from his body in a fit of blind rage, aching to see skin stretched tightly over muscles carved into his form.

You crave ripping more off of him than just his clothes.

And he, he just undresses you like you're the most fragile thing in the world. Like you'll break apart. You, cracked glass underneath a touch that could quite easily cripple you with a twist of the wrists.

His lips follow the curve between shoulder and neck, up to an ear where they trace the shell of it; warm breath skirting out against flushed skin. You're fuming, trembling in his grasp with pure anger and hatred and unbearable desire – even more so when he shifts between your thighs, settles there like it's a home for him.

_Stop acting so casual and tear me apart, you useless fuck._

You must have said something along those lines out loud, as opposed to simply thinking it, for he pauses in the midst of peppering kisses along your throat. A moment passes. Is he going to just stop?

No. Of course not.

Teeth dig into the side of your neck, unexpected and brash, hips pressing into you. And your shoulders hunch, brows bunching up, nose crinkling and lips flying apart; this is what you want after all, to be torn apart by the hands of the very obstacle in your life, sewn back together haphazardly and given a "you'll be fine" pat on the back.

But you aren't going to let him do that to you without dishing out a few wounds of your own.

Nails press into the contours of his abdomen, drag down in quick swipes to leave behind thin ribbons of bleeding red in their wake.

Ah, you've made him bleed first.

You want to bend and lick up the blood weeping from his belly in slow drips, but the way he's got you arched against him already.. Instead you opt for the more reachable areas. Your head dips forward, quick, teeth gnashing into a broad shoulder until you draw out that sweet broth flowing through his veins.

Should it be considered a sin for you, a Dove, to be doing this? Does this not go against your morals? – Absolutely not.

Much to your despair, you moan against him, the noise muffled by a mouthful of flesh. He's tightening his grip on you, thick fingers – strong enough to crush the skull of a ghoul alone – bruising a pale waist, and you move both hands to his back, press fingertips to his shoulder blades and scratch down until he hisses at the sting of nails digging into him. But despite the obvious pain piled onto him by tooth and nail, he ruts against you like a filthy animal, and you against him.

The taste of blood lingers even as your head tilts back, back arching in to a curve, toes curling. He says your name like he's a well-acquainted lover of yours and you all but bite your own tongue off to keep from snapping at him.

You can't help the way his name flies off your tongue through breathless, shaky moans in response, tighten limbs and muscle around him, cling like you'll fall apart if you let go.

Moments pass. You rest against him in a submissive state of post-orgasm, basking in the euphoria following wave after wave of pulsating heat, trying so desperately to catch your breath so that you can pack up and leave.

He traces his fingers up your back, following the subtle bumps of spine. You arch in, away from the touch, in disgust and discomfort.

"Are you ok?" he asks. What a gentle voice.

_I hate you I hate you I hate you._

"… Yeah."


End file.
